


after the ashes settled

by Pale_Blue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Cruciatus Curse (Harry Potter), Curse Damage, Dark, Depression, Hogwarts, Hurt, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Potions, References to Depression, Sad, Spell Damage (Harry Potter), Unforgivable Curses (Harry Potter), and everyone is still suffering, basically there was no real happy ending, this is pretty depressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27288925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pale_Blue/pseuds/Pale_Blue
Summary: Post-Cruciatus DisorderFollowing the Second Wizarding War there was a major surge in cases of witches and wizards in Wizarding Britain suffering from a complex condition known as Post-Cruciatus Disorder (PCD).The condition is characterised by diverse symptoms which manifest following exposure to the Cruciatus Curse (one of the three Unforgiveable Curses, use of which is banned under current legislation). Exposure does not have to exceed a single exposure, though symptoms tend to increase in severity the longer a witch or wizard is exposed to the effects of the curse. Heavy exposure can result in a severe loss of mental and physical capability.Symptoms include but are not limited to: increased difficulty with magic control, episodes of great pain, tremors, memory and concentration issues, communication issues and increased fidgeting. These may be accompanied by seizures (mild or severe), increased anxiety, feelings of paranoia, blackouts and dizzy spells.Any who feel they have these symptoms and who have been exposed to the Cruciatus Curse should see a healer or specialist on the Janus Thickey ward (fourth floor at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries).
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	1. Post-Cruciatus Disorder

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not a doctor or any kind of medical professional. I don't know if realistically the Cruciatus Curse would result in any of the problems I've said it could. This is just me writing someting sad where everyone is still suffering even though the war has ended because I am apparently incapable of letting anyone have a happy ending. 
> 
> This first chapter is just an overview of this disorder I've invented, each chapter after will focus on one specific character and a particular symptom. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy, thank you very much for deciding to read!
> 
> Title is from the song Brainstorm by Alexander 23

** Post-Cruciatus Disorder **

Following the Second Wizarding War there was a major surge in cases of witches and wizards in Wizarding Britain suffering from a complex condition known as Post-Cruciatus Disorder (PCD).

The condition is characterised by diverse symptoms which manifest following exposure to the Cruciatus Curse (one of the three Unforgiveable Curses, use of which is banned under current legislation). Exposure does not have to exceed a single exposure, though symptoms tend to increase in severity the more a witch or wizard is exposed to the effects of the curse. Heavy exposure can result in a severe loss of mental and physical capability.

Symptoms include but are not limited to: increased difficulty with magic control, episodes of great pain, tremors, memory and concentration issues, communication issues and increased fidgeting. These may be accompanied by seizures (mild or severe), increased anxiety, feelings of paranoia, blackouts and dizzy spells.

Any who feel they have these symptoms and who have been exposed to the Cruciatus Curse should see a healer or specialist on the Janus Thickey ward (fourth floor at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries).


	2. Hermione

**Pain Flares** – These are often localised if the witch or wizard was only briefly exposed to the Cruciatus Curse. There is, at present, no preventives available for this symptom, although various potions which can ease pain are available with a prescription from various apothecaries.

This symptom can usually be managed by the affected witch or wizard without specialised healer attention, although an assessment once a year is recommended to ensure that the pain is not worsening or causing distress.

* * *

It hurt again.

It wasn’t a constant thing, at least not for her. She knew of others for whom it was, who would spend days unable to move, the merest finger twitch causing unimaginable agony. Hermione supposed she was lucky that she only had pain sometimes.

She suspected it was stress. It usually was. There were very few things on earth that stress actually improved.

As Minister for Magic she lived in a state of constant stress.

Her office was dark, lit only by the lavender scented candles she kept a stash of in her bottom drawer. She had always liked scented candles. Muggle ones, that was. The Wizarding World did many things well but unfortunately lightly scented candles was not one of them.

One of the benefits of being Minister for Magic was that she had greater freedom to pick her hours of work. This was also a downside. Hermione was a chronic workaholic, had been since her first day of school and though she had managed to tone it down a little since her school days, she still preferred to stay at the Ministry an hour or two longer than her co-workers. Just to make sure everything was done.

If there was one thing Hermione hated, it was arriving at a desk filled with documents she had been too lazy to look over the day before.

She put down her quill and slowly stretched out her left arm. It was always her left arm. Sometimes she wondered if the knife Bellatrix had used to carve the hateful word into her skin had been poisoned. Hermione stretched a little too far and a feeling of roaring fire raged through her veins, causing her to gasp in pain. It was only going to get worse.

It would be useless to try and work through the pain.

Carefully and not using the throbbing limb, Hermione shoved the document she had been reading gracelessly into her bag and clumsily fumbled with the golden clasp. Every movement that was not slow and measured made her left forearm feel as though it was being doused in lava.

Gritting her teeth, she took her coat and scarf from the slender coat rack and pulled them on. Then she blew out her candles and made her way out of her dark office and into the deserted hallways, locking the heavy oak door behind her. Usually Hermione liked the heavy silence that reigned at this hour, the way the only sound was her heels clicking on the tiled floors of her department as she made her solitary way down to the Floo parlour. Some small ugly part of her still liked the feeling of being the last person left working, the one who was working the hardest.

Today it wasn’t pleasant or calming. Today it put her teeth on edge. This was always what happened. It had happened hundreds of times since she had first felt the blazing knives of the curse slice through her skin and it would happen at least a thousand more times. Hermione knew what it was. And she knew how to deal with it.

The air was cooler in the hallway and it felt like ice on her burning skin. The vast corridors of the ministry were always wickedly cold, kept away from the heating spells in heavy use in offices by the heavy doors through which no sound could be heard. 

Being raised as the daughter of two dentists meant that Hermione had had the importance of seeking medical help when something was wrong drilled into her from an early age.

So when the pain had first started during her eighth year at Hogwarts she had gone straight to Madame Pomfrey and explained in a straightforward and clinical manner what her symptoms where. Madame Pomfrey had pursed her lips into a sour little line and straightened her starched apron. She had turned the offending forearm over and over in her warm hands and pressed into Hermione's skin with careful fingers.

Then she had asked Hermione if she had ever been exposed to the Cruciatus Curse.

The diagnosis had been given within fifteen minutes of Hermione walking through the double doors of the Hospital Wing.

She had gone from the Hospital Wing straight to the library because Hermione believed the best answer to fear was to know more about the problem. By the next morning she had read every book on the condition that the library had on offer and went to see a specialist at St Mungo’s the weekend after.

The whole experience had been a curiously empty one, like a coffin without a corpse. The Cruciatus Curse burned with all the fires of hell and made death seem like a desirable option. This was just an aching arm. It didn’t seem to do justice to the suffering she had endured under the curse. It felt like the worst kind of anti-climax. When she had told Ron over coffee in Hogsmeade he had cried and Hermione had been the one comforting him.

Post-Cruciatus Disorder.

It seemed to affect everyone around her. The Cruciatus Curse had been thrown around far too much during the war. And while not everyone who it had been used on had developed PCD, a lot of her friends had. Some in more extreme ways than her. The specialist at St Mungo’s had told her she was a very lucky girl. Hermione had half-expected her to reach over the desk to pat her on the head and press a lollipop into her hand.

Right now, walking quickly towards the Ministry’s Floo Parlour, Hermione didn’t feel lucky. She had been told to expect an increase in anxiety and paranoia when the pain began. Realistically, she knew there was nothing there. Nothing lurking in the dark doorways, no one hiding behind the countless corners. There had been peace for years now. And only she would want to hang around the Ministry corridors any longer than strictly necessary.

The emerald-tiled Floo parlour was deserted, just as she had known it would be.

When she arrived in the house it was empty and silent. Ron would still be out visiting George and Angelina and would not be back until much later. The children were at Hogwarts, most likely tucked into their beds in the dormitories. Safe and sound.

Hermione dumped her bag unceremoniously on the kitchen table and went to the cupboard next to the door, not bothering to turn on the light or cast a quick _lumos_. The top shelf held a sleek black box that was spelled shut and she opened it quickly, just as the next wave flared through her arm and she groaned in spite of herself, curling subconsciously around the arm and bending until her forehead was resting on the cool marble of the worktop. The pain was agony, but the waves were usually short.

When it had receded again, Hermione straightened, pulled the box down and whispered the incantation to open it. It contained a single potion in a small glass bottle. She knew how this went. Methodically, she unstopped the bottle and pulled a large bowl out from under the sink.

The tap was stiff and it took a few squeaks before cold water splashed into the bowl, the water glittering like a thousand dropped diamonds in the moonlight. As it was filling, she added eight drops of the potion and watched as the water turned a pale lilac. Tonight was not bad enough that she would need ten drops. Eight would be enough.

The cupboards were decorated with countless photos of her and Ron and the children. They smiled down at her as she turned off the tap.

She hadn’t told Hugo and Rose about the reason behind her occasional pains. All they knew was that once or twice a month mum would have to spend a day not moving her arm and that they had to be on their best behaviour that day.

It didn’t scare her.

Hermione was not scared by things she knew the root of. It was important to know your enemy, after all. And she knew exactly why her arm was hurting. It had scared Ron, especially the first few times. He blamed himself, she knew that, for not being able to rescue her from the sharp nails and sharper knife of Bellatrix Lestrange in the shadowy drawing room in Malfoy Manor.

Slowly and carefully, Hermione lifted the bowl from the sink and placed it on the table. The only light in the room was the moonlight streaming in through the large window above the sink. It turned even the dishes drying beside the sink silvery and magical.

She sat down and rolled up her sleeve. Then she lowered her left arm into the lilac liquid and sighed as the dull pain that was always present between the flashes of red hot pain seemed to melt away.

The word was still there. It had faded slightly over the years but Hermione knew it would never fully vanish. And even if it did, it would change nothing. She felt it to her bones, to the very depths of her person. No matter how many years passed, there would be no fully erasing it. 

Hermione would sit in the dark kitchen for an hour or so, letting the lilac potion leech away the worst of the pain. Then she would get ready for bed. Her sleep would be disturbed, it always was during the flare ups, but tomorrow there would only be a dull and manageable pain left. Nothing that would require her to skip work but enough to worry Ron when he came home.

The specialist had said she was lucky.

Hermione sat alone in her moonlit kitchen with the cold water numbing her arm and wondered if any of them had been lucky.


	3. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read or left kudos!

**Increased fidgetiness** – This is one of the milder symptoms of Post-Cruciatus Disorder, but can grow out of proportion if no help is sought by the affected witch or wizard. The affected witch or wizard will have the feeling that they cannot stop moving, no matter now hard they try. It often manifests as fidgeting or tapping, but can develop into affecting several body parts at once.

* * *

When Harry had still been working in the field, it hadn’t been quite so noticeable. A jigging knee could be just nervous energy before a raid, tapping fingers just a sign of adrenaline. Nothing unusual. Nothing anyone would look twice or more at. No one looked twice at anything in the focussed calm before the violent storm, wands clutched in shaking hands and hearts pounding in dry throats.

But it had followed him home, out to dinners with his friends and to his desk when he transferred to an office after an injury that made him realise that he just couldn’t justify running the kind of risks he’d run in his twenties anymore. He was a father now. A husband. There was more to worry about now than just himself.

It accompanied him everywhere. Tapping, fiddling, jigging his knee up and down for hours on end, quill tapping on a mahogany desk, fork against the plate at lunch, a cacophony of sound that accompanied his every waking moment.

Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had sat truly still.

The only sound in the silent office was the sound of his quill tapping a steady beat against his desk. It was a beautiful office and he had been lucky to get it. The desk was large enough to contain both an ever-growing stack of documents and framed photographs of his children and Ginny without becoming crowded. The same desk on the other end of the room belonged to Jean, his assistant, a short lady with a peculiar love for burgundy velvet coats and matching shoes.

He could feel Jean’s eyes travelling again and again to his hands. But Harry just couldn’t stop. He hadn’t stopped in years.

But that didn’t mean he had stopped trying.

Harry put the quill down. Jean breathed a louder than necessary sigh of relief that seemed to echo around the room, reverberating off the oak panelling and candy shop windows.

For a few seconds there was silence, heavy, blissful silence. Jean turned back to her work and Harry stared up at the ceiling, at the ancient lights hanging there and tried to empty his mind.

As if there was even any point. As if that had ever worked.

Harry’s right knee began to jig up and down.

He had always been the child who couldn’t sit still, eternally sliding around in the chairs in his primary school classroom, forever pulling at his much to large school shirts, but he had always stopped when he had been told to. At least for a while. In Hogwarts he had found an outlet in the frantic energy of Quidditch. Then the war and there had been no time to sit still for almost a year so it hadn’t been an issue. But he had been able to stop, if he had wanted to.

Now he couldn’t stop anymore. It didn’t matter how many pointed glares from Jean were sent his way, it didn’t matter how many times Ginny quietly asked him to stop fidgeting. He couldn’t stop.

Even at night when Ginny was fast asleep beside him he was tapping, tapping, always tapping out the same steady beat onto the mattress that seemed to stalk him even into his dreams.

Jean glared at him again, not even hiding her irritation this time. Harry pushed his foot flat against the floor, forcing the limb to stay still but no sooner had he done that, his fingers were tapping against his thigh and Harry knew there was no way to stop it. Some mysterious energy was always ticking in his veins, preventing him from sitting still no matter how hard he tried. It was like someone had flicked a hidden switch inside him on and forgotten to tell him how to turn it off again.

Hermione had been telling him to visit a specialist for years. She had said it quietly, in that hushed, whispered way people speak about traumatic and troubling things. Hermione had suggested in that sensible way of hers that he should at least consider that it had originated from his fourth year, from that night in the graveyard.

But Harry didn’t want to talk or think about that evening ever again. He didn’t want to think about Cedric lying on the damp grass, glassy eyes open and staring sightlessly up at the moon.

So he kept tapping.

Jean put down a leatherbound book with much more force than strictly necessary and suddenly the room felt far too small. Harry could practically feel the walls shifting closer and closer, the ceiling dropping a metre every second, the windows shrinking down to dollhouse size.

Harry pushed his chair back with a loud creak of complaint from the floorboards and his knees.

“Need some air,” he mumbled by way of explanation and rushed to the door.

The ministry was full, always full, and Harry could feel his fingers twitching, thumbs tapping on his nails and he shoved his hands in the large pockets of his robes.

Usually he didn’t have a problem with his own incessant tapping. It had been that way for years and he had long accepted it as being something that was just a part of his person, the same way his scarred forehead and still knobbly knees were.

But when people stared and sighed and shot him pointed glares, he became too aware of it, too aware of the way he couldn’t stop, even with impatience and annoyance being thrown his way from all directions.

It wasn’t a problem. There was nothing wrong with him. It was only an issue when people around him turned it into one.

It wasn’t from the curse thrown his way by Voldemort. Harry couldn’t accept it. Voldemort was dead and couldn’t bother him anymore. It was all in the past now.

It was cold outside, the kind of cold that made his eyes sting and throat ache when he took a deep breath. Harry leaned back against the wall and his fingers gleefully began to tap out the familiar rhythm against the rough stone. The heavy clouds above promised snow for London in the next few hours and he was glad he was able to apparate or use the Floo when he wanted to go anywhere. The utter chaos that broke out whenever the UK was hit by even the lightest dusting of snow usually didn’t bode well for the punctuality of public transport.

The tapping, fidgeting, pulling at clothes never stopped.

Muggles walked past, wrapped in scarves and blissfully unaware of a whole world beneath their feet and in the building they walked past every day and never even noticed.

It was easier out here. No one could hear him tapping. No one would glare at him.

Hermione’s worried face floated into his thoughts again, her bottom lip latched between her front teeth as she told him that she was worried about him.

No one needed to be worried about him.

His fingers tapped faster and faster on the stone.

Harry was fine. He didn’t have a problem. Everyone else did.


	4. Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who was read, left kudos or commented!

**Difficulties with Magic Control** \- This symptom can be particularly distressing to the affected witches or wizards. The episodes or outbursts experienced take the form of sudden and intense outbursts of magic, which can be both painful and destructive. During the episode, the affected witch or wizard commonly experiences excessive bleeding from nose, eyes or ears and a pain similar to that occurring under the Cruciatus Curse is experienced. Stress, anger and anxiety can be triggers for more intensive episodes. The episodes can take years to emerge and are often preceded by a weakening of general magical ability. Forced suppression of episodes (which is not always possible) is dangerous and not recommended, even for short periods of time as this can result in unpleasant physical symptoms such as seizures, migraines and uncontrollable tremors. With time, the severity of the episodes may subside and the witch or wizard may be able to cast spells normally. However, in some cases this does not occur. Due to the extreme nature of the episodes experienced by sufferers, the affected will often have to take Magical Suppression Potions. If the episodes are milder and the affected witch or wizard is on a lower dose then simply spells should still be possible, though caution is advised.

Side effects of taking the Magical Suppression Potions include: increased anxiety, depression, insomnia and migraines.

* * *

Draco took three potions every morning with a cup of black coffee.

One, navy blue and bitter on the tongue, kept the dark thoughts locked safely in the back of his mind where they couldn’t trouble him, where they could do little more than lurk and sneer from the shadows.

One, pale orange and sour, kept the worries away. It stopped his hands shaking every time he went to visit his parents in the Manor, where the shadows seems to grow larger with every year that passed, and every time he had to go to Diagon Alley and endure the stares and hushed whispers behind fanned hands.

And one, grey as a tombstone, stopped the episodes. It also had the unfortunate side effect of stealing every last remnant of joy left in Draco’s life and burning it to ash. It tasted like chalk and it left his throat feeling dry.

The episodes had started after the Battle of Hogwarts, although he had been having difficulties casting even the simplest of spells for months before the fighting truly began. Draco hadn’t told anyone. He hadn’t had _that_ extensive a death wish at the time. What use was there for a Deatheater who was slowly becoming a squib? He’d have been dead on his living room floor before he’d even finished his sentence.

The potions left a sour taste around his gums and he quickly took a sip of the coffee. It was still far too hot and Draco could feel it scalding his throat. He took another sip. Then another.

Today was the day Scorpius came home. Draco didn’t ever tell Scorpius how much he truly missed him during those long Hogwarts terms. He regretted it every time he sent his son back to school but he didn’t know how to change.

He would have to take the train to get to London. Apparition hadn’t been possible for Draco for several years now. As a result, he was now very familiar with Muggle Public Transport. And he would continue to be, as he relied on it to go everywhere that wasn’t connected to the Floo Network. A car was very much out of the question.

The first episode he’d had, just after the war ended, had reduced his childhood bedroom in the Manor to a blackened shell. He had woken from a nightmare, hair sticking to his sweat soaked skin and every breath a battle and then it had come out of nowhere. It had felt as though his very skin was being torn from his body in bloody strips, the room turning white with crackling bolts of raw magic, the smell of burning blocking out everything. There had been screaming, so much screaming. It was only when Draco had regained consciousness on the carpet, which had been reduced to charcoal, with his mother’s worried face hanging over him that he realised that the screams had come from him. Draco’s nose hadn’t stopped bleeding for ten minutes and his throat had felt like he would never be able to speak again. His thoughts had felt like they had been ripped into a thousand tiny pieces and then tossed back into his skull.

After the second outburst in the drawing room, his terrified mother had called a healer and that was where the magic had been stopped.

Not entirely, of course.

Slowly, Draco got up from the table, mug cradled in his hands. It was early. There was still a few hours before he had to leave. Scorpius had never questioned why they took the train home from King’s Cross and why Draco never did any magic at home. But he would eventually. Older teenagers were such relentlessly curious creatures.

Even though he had only just swallowed the potions, Draco could feel the numbness settling around his brain. The coffee mug was hot against his skin and he concentrated on that as best he could.

His father didn’t know the extent of the problem. And Draco intended to keep it that way. The mere thought of his only son living as a squib would likely result in a heart attack or some other fatal complication. Draco didn’t think he would be able to face that look of shocked disappointment.

The deserted street outside was dark and the shadows long. The streetlights glowed a warm yellow against the inky sky and Draco was once again struck by how peaceful the world was before everyone else woke up and made the usual intolerable din.

He and Scorpius had moved into a mixed Wizarding and Muggle area after Astoria’s death. It had felt like the right thing to do. The old house had been so full of memories that Draco had felt like he was being suffocated every time he glanced at the bookshelves or the plates she had chosen. Every floorboard seemed to hold a memory and Draco couldn’t stand it. Scorpius had been keen to move as well. So they had done so just after Scorpius’s fourth year.

The time after the funeral had been challenging. His episodes were brought on by difficult emotions, the ones that left him feeling like control had slipped between his grasping fingers and left him stranded. Draco had spent long nights gritting his teeth so hard it had felt like they would crumble in his mouth, trying to stop the episodes from starting until he was alone again. The walls were thin and the sounds of Scorpius sobbing in his room down the hallway had felt like punches. He should have gone to him, helped his only child through the grief. But he hadn’t, because Astoria had been the one who had been able to comfort and calm while he felt awkward even thinking of doing anything more familiar than a handshake. So Draco had huddled on his floor, fists clenched and head pounding while his son fell apart a few doors down.

Only when Scorpius had gone out to see a friend or take a walk had Draco let the uncontrolled magic burst from him. He wasn’t supposed to suppress it. The balding specialist at St Mungo’s had said it would be damaging long term, that it could end in seizures or other unpleasant things.

But he couldn’t do that in front of his son. He just couldn’t.

The result had been episodes strong enough to do some damage to the furniture in the house, for never-ending nosebleeds that left him so light-headed that he was sure there was no more blood left in his body and tremors running through his limbs that were difficult to conceal. The worst one had come after he had returned from dropping Scorpius off at King’s Cross. It was one of the few aftermaths where he’d seriously considered crawling to the Floo and hoping he made it to St Mungo’s. He hadn’t of course. The damn Malfoy pride wouldn’t allow it.

Nowadays, he couldn’t even cast a simple _lumos_ anymore.

Draco’s wand, returned by Potter after the war, was locked in the top drawer of his bedside table. Sometimes he took it with him when he went out, just in case. But it was a pointless move. The wand no longer obeyed him. His magic was wild now, no longer willing or able to be controlled by anything or anyone.

He hadn’t had an episode in weeks. It put him on edge, made him feel like something was going to happen at any minute. Draco hadn’t slept for three nights. The episodes were always at the forefront of his mind before he went out anywhere for an extended period of time and there was nothing the potions could do about that.

Would it come on the platform? Would he be screaming up a storm with blood gushing from his eyes in front of the parents of all Scorpius’s classmates, the cause of the smashing windows and buckling pillars, the yelling and trunks flying in all directions? Or perhaps on the train, where his uncontrolled magic would be deadly in such a confined space? Would Scorpius be thrown across the carriage, would the seats be ripped from the floor—

Draco took a deep breath and, with great effort, stopped the thought there.

It wouldn’t happen like that.

The potions meant that the episodes were less extreme, even when he supressed them against all advice to not do so. They still left him feeling as though he had been doused in liquid fire, caused hot blood to drip from his nose and eyes but they didn’t wreak the uncontrolled havoc of his first few fits. Maybe some plates would shatter, a few chairs would crumple like paper fans but there was no longer the risk of him accidently causing the house to burn down.

That didn’t stop him worrying about it every time he set foot outside the house.

Draco often dreamed about the curse. He dreamed of writhing on the dining room floor to the tune of his aunt’s deranged screeches, of the cold high laughter of The Dark Lord. The pain had been excruciating. He hadn’t been able to cast the curse properly himself. It probably hadn’t helped that he had barely been able to summon up a successful _accio_ either. Every failure had ended in him having the curse turned on himself. The Dark Lord had not been a tolerant teacher.

The specialist on the Janus Thickey ward had warned him that taking the potions would cause him to lose the ability to do most spells. Draco would be required to be on a higher dose.

He had agreed. How could he not?

Draco took another sip of coffee.

He would read the Prophet when it arrived, he decided, absently tapping his finger on the side of the mug. His stomach was churning but he would try to eat something. And then he would get dressed and make his way to King’s Cross.

There would be no episodes today.


	5. Neville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented or left kudos!!

**Tremors** – The tremors suffered by affected witches and wizards occur most commonly in the hands, but can also affect the face or legs. In extreme cases, the tremors can become so extreme that they may present as seizure-like episodes.

The tremors are not usually accompanied by pain. They can be triggered by stress anxiety or other negative emotions. In some cases they are constant, in others they occur in episodes lasting between ten minutes and an hour, occasionally longer. If these exceed three days without pause, the affected witch or wizard is recommended to seek medical care at the Janus Thickey Ward of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. 

* * *

The tremors always came, at the most inoppurtune moments.

Neville was supposed to be teaching a class in half an hour and out of nowhere his hands had started twitching. It always started in the hands. Neville knew that soon his left eye would be twitching along and, if it was a particularly bad episode, his knees were likely to join in not long after.

He put down the small scalpel he had been using to carefully remove the outer petals of a plant that he was tending to for Madam Pomfrey. When boiled, the translucent petals could be used in painkilling potions. Neville knew that it was often prescribed for those who had problems with pain due to Post-Cruciatus Disorder. Several of the staff had it. So did a handful of students and that was a fact that both saddened and horrified Neville down to his bones. Some days it seemed to Neville that every second person he knew had it or knew someone that did. 

His traitorous fingers twitched, the shaking so bad that he quickly took a few steps back, away from the plant, afraid he would knock it over and damage it in some way.

There was, currently, no potion that he could take to help with the tremors. Apparently it was something that was being extensively researched but there had been no results yet. And Neville knew that the priority in PCD research was in the magic control difficulties and the memory issues. The parts of the condition that could easily entirely destroy lives.

The watery Scottish sun streaming through the open roof panel of the greenhouse roof was warm on Neville’s skin. He focussed on that, kept his thoughts firmly away from despair and panic that only ever made things worse. It had been a good morning, a perfectly pleasant morning. His students had, for the most part, behaved. His tea had been the right temperature at breakfast and there had been some of his favourite blueberry muffins left at the staff table, despite his having been late arriving into the Great Hall. His usual early morning run along the edges of the Hogwarts grounds had gone well and not been made more challenging by the torrential rain that was so typical of Autumn in Scotland. He had received a parcel from Hannah that morning, carefully wrapped in brown paper and so heavy that it had required two owls to carry it. There had been no stress or anger. It had been pleasant and wonderfully, tantalisingly ordinary.

The greenhouse was, in Neville’s opinion the calmest place in all of Hogwarts. The air was warm and humid and every time he inhaled the clean, earthy smell of soil and plants he felt almost instantly invigorated. It was a place to sink fingers into soft soil, to care for the hundreds of different plants clustered haphazardly on tables and work benches all around the greenhouse. A place to be refreshed, to learn, to feel at home in. At least, that was the atmosphere that Neville tried hard to nurture. Herbology was not a subject that was taken seriously by all students, but Neville prided himself in sparking interest in his subject in at least one or two students in every year, just as Pomona had in him while he had been a student. It was never going to be possible to win over a whole class. Neville had accepted that years ago and was now far happier for it. Just because not everyone saw the appeal in the mysteries and lives of plants did not mean they were not deeply fascinating. 

And still the tremors had come. Despite his perfectly ordinary morning and calm environment. Despite him being surrounded day and night by plants and people he trusted and admired. 

The class Neville was supposed to be teaching in half an hour was an OWL class. At that level he couldn’t just sit them all down at the long oak table that stretched the length of the greenhouse with textbooks and hope for the best. The students had to learn in a hands-on way.

He couldn’t cancel the class. He couldn’t let down his students like that.

They had already lost some time last week when a routine survey of the Whomping Willow had resulted in a fifth year Gryffindor ending up in the hospital wing with a fractured wrist and a black eye. Gryffindors. Always acting first and thinking later. Neville was pretty sure Gryffindors made up a disproportionate percentage of the students that Madam Pomfrey saw every year.

Cautiously, Neville tried to straighten out his spasming fingers. The tremors no longer caused waves of short-breathed terror to course through his veins as they had once done. And he no longer had any problems remembering exactly what had caused his shaking. After the war Neville had been a whole new person and that person didn’t spend years wallowing in self pity. That person acknowledged that there was a problem but kept going forward anyway. At his own pace, but forwards nonetheless. 

It could be worse, that he knew that better than most.

His parents were permanent residents of the Janus Thickey Ward. They had been almost as long as he’d been alive. He had known the devastating effects PCD could have before he had shown any signs of childish magic or babbles his first words. It wasn’t like he would ever be able to forget that he had been lucky, when the reminders looked straight through him and pressed sweet wrappers into his hands every Sunday.

His fingers wouldn’t straighten fully. The tremors were too strong.

Neville nudged the plant carefully back to its usual place beside the window as best he could with his elbow. The scalpel he left where it was. He wasn’t going to take risks. He was no longer as clumsy as he had been during his time as a student but he didn’t trust himself to not accidently slice a leaf off one of the plants while his hands were shaking the way they were. Or one of his fingers. Losing a finger was not an inconvenience he needed. The delicate petals he had already removed Neville left as well. There was no point risking accidentally crushing them or dropping them on the floor.

He breathed in slowly, counted to ten, then exhaled.

At least there was no sign of the tremors spreading to his leg today. Or his face. When his left eye started twitching it was a lot more difficult to hide than his hands. At least he could put his hands into his pockets until the shaking stopped, or keep them down at his sides where they were less visible. It was a lot harder to hide his whole face.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it didn’t.

He wasn’t going to cancel the class.

Neville was going to hold it as he usually did, but without the demonstrations. He would just explain in far greater detail than he normally did and count on his students to follow his instructions. He liked his OWL class. They were intelligent and focussed and highly unlikely to cause him any sort of trouble. He would stand with his traitorous hands trembling behind his back and a smile on his face and teach about his beloved plants.

Because Neville was done with letting anything hold him back.

His fingers trembled as he started to slowly and carefully set out the small pots of Fluxweed that they would be focussing on. By hand. There was too large a risk of him accidently pointing his wand at the wrong thing with his hands shaking the way they were. The last thing he wanted was to accidently levitate the table through the glass wall of the greenhouse.

Today had been a good day. And Neville was not going to let the tremors change that.


	6. Luna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou so much to everyone who has read and apologies for the delay with this chapter

**Memory issues and concentration** – These symptoms can be distressing and, in some cases, can result in day to day activities becoming much more difficult. In less severe cases, only the short-term memory is affected, although this is not the rule. In more severe cases, long-term memories may be lost and the witch or wizard may begin to forgot important details about themselves and their lives. A loss in concentration capacity is not uncommon and the witch or wizard may be easily distracted and struggle to concentrate on one thing at a time without getting distracted by something else.

* * *

The farmers market in the village that had only one long winding street was busy today. Everywhere around Luna people were picking up vegetables, carefully examining fruits, exchanging coins for produce. She came every Saturday without fail, even in the winter when the puddles froze over and everything was white and blanketed in snow. But Luna could not remember what she had meant to buy today and she had left her carefully written list at home.

The bright red of a pile of scarlet apples caught her eye and Luna forgot that she had forgotten her list. Maybe it had been apples that she had been after. She was certainly in the mood for them now, running her pale fingers over their smooth skins. Luna imagined biting into one, the slightly sour taste washing over her gums. Yes, it had to have been apples she had needed to buy.

“How much for the apples?” she asked the man in the orange cloak sitting hunched on a wooden chair behind the stall. The cool apple skin was comforting against her palm. It had to have been apples she had wanted to buy.

“Three for a Galleon,” the man grunted, not looking up from the Daily Prophet.

Luna was sure she had come for apples.

She carefully selected three from the basket, making sure to select one that was misshapen and bruised so that it would not be left to rot for not being as pretty as the others. The man took them from her and looked at her expectantly. But Luna had noticed the ruby red strawberries, sitting in small cardboard cartons a little further down the stall. She picked up one of the small cartons cautiously, allowing the sweet smell to waft over her. It reminded her of summer. The sky had been empty, desolate grey for days and Luna missed the feel of sun on her skin

“How much for these?” she asked.

The man crinkled his forehead and gave her a confused look. His glasses were not straight on his face and Luna briefly contemplated telling him.

“I thought you were after the apples?”

Apples? Luna couldn’t remember having come to the market for apples. She was sure it had been strawberries she had been after. They smelled so deliciously sweet and she could imagine having them with whipped cream. You couldn’t eat apples with whipped cream.

“Oh, they’re not mine,” she told him dreamily, still thinking about how she could maybe bring some of the sweet strawberries to her father. But had he been home in the morning, before she had left for the market? Luna couldn’t remember. Maybe if she concentrated she would be able to recall if he had been sitting across from her at breakfast, maybe if she just focussed as hard as she could -

“Miss, they are, you asked me about them a minute ago,” the man said, loudly and slowly, like he was speaking with a child.

“I only want the strawberries,” Luna told him firmly and held them out to him.

Muttering to himself, the man put the apples down and took the strawberries from her outstretched hand to weigh them.

“Two galleons, please,” the man said.

Luna pulled the coins from her pocket and handed them to him. Then she made her way slowly to the next stall. It had a brilliantly coloured vegetable display that was entrancing to the eye.

“Miss!” the man shouted behind her. “You forgot your strawberries!”

The strawberries?

The ones she was going to bring to her father, she remembered. The ones that had smelled so sweetly of summer.

“Sorry, I was dreaming,” she smiled and took the small basket from the man, who only shook his head in answer before picking up the Daily Prophet again.

The ground was cold and wet beneath her feet and when she looked down she realised that she had forgotten her shoes. Luna wriggled her bare toes and tried to think if she had been wearing them before or if she had left them at home.

It didn’t concern her.

She had always preferred to walk barefoot. Even when it was cold. Luna could remember being in a basement with no shoes for a long time, somewhere cold and dark. She frowned and tried to recall when that had been, but she couldn’t remember. It must have been at Hogwarts.

The bright green of a stack of peppers caught her attention and she made her way over to the stall immediately to admire them. Luna put her strawberries down so that she could pick up a pepper and admire the way the skin gleamed ever so slightly. Maybe it was peppers she had come for?

They were larger than the ones she had in the garden at home. Had she already harvested her ones?

Then maybe it wasn’t peppers she wanted after all.

She pulled a hand through her long hair and her fingers caught on tangles and she couldn’t remember if she had brushed it that morning or not. Perhaps it was a brush she had come to the market for? But that wouldn’t make sense, it was a farmers market and they didn’t usually sell brushes.

But what had she come for? Luna couldn’t remember.

A boy ran by with a large ginger cat gathered in his arms. It looked not altogether pleased to be carried in such a fashion but the boy had bright eyes and cheeks flushed pink with joy and Luna found herself smiling at the sight, turning and walking some steps after him.

Then she stopped.

Someone she knew had had a cat like that once. At Hogwarts. But she couldn’t remember who. She could remember seeing it walking in the corridors, hissing at anyone who dared to come to close.

Had she come to buy a cat?

Luna couldn’t remember.

Perhaps she had just wanted to look at the selection of vegetables available to get some ideas for what she would grow in the garden next year. Yes, that had to be right. She hadn’t brought a list, so she clearly hadn’t wanted to buy anything. That had to be it.

Luna left the market and made her way slowly back home, following the route she had been walking since childhood. Xenophilius had carefully rebuilt the crooked house Luna had grown up in and now it looked just as it had before the war. Luna lived there with him now, just as she had done all through her Hogwarts days. She had tried to move into a small flat on Diagon Alley, a tiny second floor space with single pane windows and a dark blue door, but had accidently left the stove on by accident one Autumn morning and it had burned out her kitchen while she had been looking at books in Flourish and Blotts. She couldn’t remember what she had been baking. All she could recall was the way the kitchen had smelled, like charcoal or the calm that came after a battle in a scorched castle. After that she had moved back in with her father. And he had forbidden her from cooking when he wasn’t also in the house.

The road was rough beneath her bare feet and Luna had the feeling she had forgotten something. But the feeling did not last because she was distracted by a rabbit that chose just then to rush across her path. She stopped and watched it tear across the field before continuing on her way.

It was only when she had walked up the wooden steps and gotten herself a glass of cool water that she realised that she had left the strawberries at the market.


End file.
